475: Chapter 475 Burial Ground Died

The moment the gaze descended, the entire Burial Land died.

It was not silence, nor was it freezing—rather, it was as if all things, in the presence of some supreme existence, held their breath, even the very fact of their "existence" itself.

Space lost its desire to extend, time forgot the meaning of flowing, and even the boundary between "motion" and "stillness" completely dissolved under that single glance.

This scorched earth, which had inhaled and exhaled endless death and buried all oblivion, returned in this moment to that pure, absolute, and shuddering void from before its birth.

The monsters in the cracks solidified into insects struggling in vain within an amber of time.

The bone hand extended by the Necro-Bone Titan hovered above the last bit of spiritual light about to dissipate from Cang Ming—a distance of an inch had become an eternal chasm.

The Dao patterns between its bone fingers, which had originally flowed ceaselessly and symbolized the end of death, were now as dead and stiff as withered vines.

Deep within its scarlet vertical pupil, what was reflected was no longer a desire for destruction, but ripples named "fear" that had clearly emerged for the first time, swallowing up eons of tyranny.

The Blood Infant Mist Nightmares froze midway, their misty bodies developing a sickly stiffness at the edges.

Those circular mouthparts, forever hungry and filled with spiral sharp teeth, still maintained the posture of biting, yet they were powerless to emit even the faintest whimper.

These aggregates of resentment, originally devoid of intelligence, touched the chill of "the end" for the first time in a daze, amidst the trembling of their existential instincts.

That pitch-black withered tree, which fed on mournful songs, had all its outstretched branches frozen in mid-air, like ghost claws instantly frozen by a harsh winter.

The twisted, blurred human face on the trunk still maintained the shape of singing, but the elegy capable of eroding Souls and invading bones was brutally strangled in its throat, leaving only a formless, desperate tremor spreading silently in the stagnant air.

They were not sealed, nor were they bound.

They were merely "seen."

They were pinned to the Origin of their own existence by that entity sleeping at the very bottom of the Burial Land, who wove all death yet transcended all death, standing at the boundary between eternity and nothingness, with a single simple "gaze."

Thump.

The sound came from beneath their feet, above their heads, from all directions, and from the depths of every grain of scorched earth dust—this was not a sound, but the entire "world" of the Burial Land contracting and palpitating, like a heart that had been silent for countless eons, beginning its first heavy, suffocating beat once again.

Thump.

On the surface of the scorched earth, millions of cracks spread crazily like living creatures; it was not shattering, but rather like an ancient riverbed that had been dry for eons, stretching its clogged veins under the summons of some will.

Deep within the fissures, it was no longer empty, but oozing dark light as viscous as corrupted blood.

Thump.

The huge wound in the sky that had been forcibly torn open and was flowing with dark red pus suddenly expanded, and more thick liquid mixed with broken Law fragments poured down, but as it was about to touch the ground, it was evaporated and tempered by an invisible force, turning into the most primitive, most pure deathly silence.

Every "heartbeat" made those primordial nightmares that had struggled to crawl out of the cracks—nightmares that should have been forgotten for eternity—the Necro-Bone Titan, the Blood Infant Mist Nightmares, the Mourning Tree, and many more existences whose mere outlines were enough to pollute one's sanity—tremble from the deepest part of their Souls.

That was not fear of power, but the irresistible humbleness branded into the Foundation of existence when a creation faces its creator.

The bone fingers of the Necro-Bone Titan, which were gripping the edge of the crack, groaned as if on the verge of shattering due to excessive force.

It still tried to reach its arm deeper, wanting to seize that last wisp of ancient Origin within Cang Ming at the final moment—that was its only hope to break free from eternal exile.

However, the scene reflected in its vertical pupil made this last struggle seem pale and desperate.

The Blood Infant Mist Nightmares gave up wandering; they crowded and piled on each other, curling up in the shadows at the edge of the crack, as if that would allow them to escape that omnipresent gaze.

Those insatiable, sharp-toothed mouths were tightly shut, not daring to make even the slightest friction sound, like a swarm of mosquitoes trembling in the shadow of a predator.

The pitch-black withered tree began a slow and resolute retreat.

Its root system, which was deeply rooted in the scorched earth and had absorbed the nutrients of Divine Souls for countless eons, pulled out of the soil of death inch by inch like a startled swarm of snakes, bringing out viscous black fluid.

The human face on the trunk moved its lips rapidly, but could no longer piece together any meaningful syllables, leaving only silent, desperate pleading.

They were retreating.

Desperately, they tried to shrink back into the crack that had spat them out, to retreat into that absolute abyss of no light, no sound, and no time—a place that had once been their prison, but now became the only imaginable sanctuary.

But the cracks were rejecting them.

Without external force, without a Seal, those hideous, gaping wounds leading to the abyss began to heal on their own.

The scorched black land curled inward and closed as if it had a life of its own, with a grayish-white shimmer appearing at the edges, slowly and firmly pushing the overflowing chaos and madness back.

It was as if the Burial Land itself was a massive Seal with self-awareness, and those cracks were merely temporary ulcers, now being ruthlessly repaired by the main body.

The Necro-Bone Titan let out a silent roar—

Unwilling!

Eons of imprisonment, only to trade for this fleeting moment of freedom?

Using its last ounce of strength, its bone hand gripped the edge of the crack tightly, its five finger bones, like mountains, digging deep into the scorched earth, plowing a bottomless ravine tens of miles long across the wasteland; boiling Death Qi gushed out from the trench, yet it could not delay the closing by even a fraction.

The crack, like a cold, chewing giant mouth, closed slowly and resolutely.

Snap... Crack...

A teeth-aching, crisp sound, as if the Law itself was breaking, came through.

The Necro-Bone Titan's bone hand, capable of crushing stars, under the irresistible biting force of the crack, broke and shattered inch by inch, starting from the knuckles!

In the end, the five pale bone fingers, severed at the roots, crashed heavily onto the scorched earth like collapsing mountains, stirring up bone ash dust that covered the sky and blocked the sun.

From the severed ends, dark red bone marrow, viscous as lava, gushed out—it was the blood of ancient gods and demons that had long since cooled and rotted; as it dripped onto the ground, it corroded bottomless holes that hissed "hiss."

It did not scream, perhaps it had already lost the qualification to scream.

Its massive bone body, having lost its final support, silently and with acceleration plummeted toward the re-gathering darkness deep within the crack.

During the fall, that vertical pupil that had been staring fixedly at the outside world dimmed rapidly, and finally, like a candle in the wind, flickered unwillingly, reflecting the silhouette of the grayish-white sky that it would never be able to reach—

Then it went out completely, swallowed by the abyss.

The fate of the Blood Infant Mist Nightmares was even more miserable.

The invisible suction created by the closing of the cracks exerted a fatal pull on these incorporeal aggregates of resentment.

They screamed, their voices no longer the mind-bewitching elegies, but heart-rending shrieks filled with pure fear, like billions of red-hot steel needles simultaneously piercing through the barriers of reality and the Soul.

Their misty bodies twisted and elongated under the suction; they bit and devoured each other, trying to delay the speed at which they were dragged back by using the existence of their companions, performing the most primitive and cruel drama of survival—

But it was all in vain.

In the end, like smoke and dust sucked away by an invisible giant mouth, they disappeared in groups into the completely closed crack with a short, dense final shriek, leaving only a faint, nauseating stench of resentment that lingered for a long time.

Before the last crack, the Mourning Tree made the most intense resistance.

It no longer retreated, but instead frantically stabbed all its remaining root systems into the surrounding scorched earth, not hesitating to pierce through the remains of its own kind, attempting to anchor itself.

Its branches grew wildly outward at an unprecedented speed, like a black ghost claw reaching desperately toward the sky.

The human face on the trunk became twisted to the extreme, its mouth opening to an incredible arc, no longer singing, but emitting a final roar that condensed all its Origin, resentment, and unwillingness—

"Roar—!!!"

The sound wave turned into visible black ripples, sweeping across all directions; wherever it passed, space wrinkled, and fragile remains instantly turned into powder.

This was its last cry against that gaze, against that fate.

However, the crack closed ruthlessly.

Like heaven and earth coming together.

Rip—!

Countless root systems were neatly severed by an invisible boundary force, spraying ink-like fluid.

The wildly growing branches shattered joint by joint under the pressure of the closing crack, like fragile withered twigs.

The face on the trunk, at the final moment, was crushed and flattened by the irresistible pressure, turning into a pale, flat image as thin as a cicada's wing, twisted to the extreme, deeply branded onto the hard surface of the scorched earth—

Like a mocking tombstone relief erected for an ancient evil.

That half-exposed mouth still maintained the shape of a roar, yet could no longer emit any sound.

Only an eternal, silent cry was solidified on the land of death.

Subsequently, the scorched earth flowed, dust covered it, and even this last trace of existence was slowly smoothed over, dissipating without a trace.

The Burial Land returned to that absolute, maddening deathly silence that had been the same for eons.

But the deathly silence at this moment was different from before—

It had added a certain indescribable, solemn, and heavy feeling, as if waiting for a verdict.